The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1996. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

Okay, you want the short story, or the long story? I'll tell you the short story first. No, no, wait, I'll tell you the long story first.

I see her at Sweet Alice every time I come here. And every time I'm here, I watch her do the things she does. Because she's sexy. Frankly speaking, she's very, very sexy.

Okay, maybe I should go back to the short story. It was Valentine's Day and we were all really drunk and I admitted to my friends that I have a big crush on her and they, in their drunken state, thought it would be fun if they would refuse to let me leave until I ask her out. The thought filled me with a sense of dread and oncoming doom, but I realized that my friends were just drunk enough to be serious.

Alright, back to the long story. Actually, let's jump over the long story and go straight to the longer story:

Fact #1. I love women. This is not a sexist statement, this is not a generalization, this is not a declaration that I am a Casanova or that women are objects for me to collect like Pogs. I just simply love women. Tall women, short women, women with red hair, or blonde, or black, or any artificial combination therein, women with big breasts, with small breasts. Tough women, shy women, women that look like boys, women that look like women, I... love... women. It's not by choice. I've been this way as long as I can remember, which is three years old. I never went through that period that they say boys go through where they think girls have cooties -- I was falling deeply, spiritually in love with women when I was in first grade. To this day, I do everything in my power to not fall in love with women, but I just cannot help myself. Hell, there's some days when I'm heading to the store and there's a woman walking in front of me and I start thinking about what a precious natural resource the gait of a woman's walk is, how if you could somehow harness the kinetic energy inherent in a woman's walk, you could power the city of Buffalo, New York for six months. And the next thing you know, it's twenty minutes later and I'm in a completely different neighborhood, because I spaced out just watching this woman walk down the sidewalk. And no, that doesn't make me a stalker, it just makes me pathetic, so... shut up!

Fact #2. I am terrified of women. Absolutely... terrified. I don't know why God takes such pleasure in installing these two traits into the very same body, but sometimes, when it's a clear day and the wind is still and I close my eyes and listen very, very carefully, I can hear God laughing at me. In order for me to ask out a woman, I have to go through an elaborate ritual of psyching myself up for it, gulping down alcohol to release my emergency supply of courage, going through a convoluted series of mantras and justifications in my head...

(Closing eyes and whispering improvised text, along the lines of the following) Okay. This will be fine. This will be just fine. Go ahead. What do you got to lose? She's just a girl. A girl. What's that? A girl... that's just a... that's just a boy without a penis. And you can talk to boys, can't you? Go ahead. It'll be fine.

(Opening eyes) The short story: I do this for about twenty minutes, then I walk over to her... and I ask her out!

The long story: In my perfect little world that exists in my head, this is how I ask women out.

(Drummer starts playing smooth jazz. Reader stands at back of stage, picks random woman in audience, smiles and starts flirting with his eyes. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, saunters up to the microphone). Hey. How's it going. I just got some tickets to the new Steppenwolf play. It'd be cool if you could join me. How 'bout it?

(Drums stop) In the real world, where buses run late and people get shot in the loop and I haven't had sex in six months, this is how I ask women out.

(Drummer starts playing irregular, neurotic, arrhythmical beat on snare drum. Reader speaks very fast) Uh, hi, look, I'm really drunk so if I sound like an idiot I'm really sorry or if I'm bothering you or put you in an awkward position don't worry about it 'cause you're not going to hurt my feelings either way but I got these tickets to the new Steppenwolf play and I haven't found anyone to go with me and I thought, you know, if you want to go with me it'd be really cool but if not that's fine 'cause you're not going to hurt my feelings one way or another. (Steps back, squeezes eyes shut and cringes for a few seconds)

The short story: She said, "Well, actually, I'm dating someone. But if something changes, I'll let you know."

The long story: I know this is a polite way for her to flat out turn me down, but at that moment I want to kiss her for having the decency to politely turn me down, for understanding what a horrible, gut-wrenching experience it is for me to ask someone out, for realizing that just because some men deserve to be treated rudely for asking out women in a bar, it doesn't mean we all deserve it. For having compassion and honesty and a tolerant nature.

The short story: She and I see each other every Tuesday now, smile and say "hi" to each other. I don't really talk to her, because... well, frankly, I just kinda feel like a dope around her. And I'm not sure, but every so often she gives me a look like she wonders if I was serious about asking her out or if I was drunk and asking out women at random and maybe so drunk that I don't even remember asking her out.

The long story: Every time I see this look on her face, I want to grab her by the arm and tell her, "You know, I do remember asking you out. I really was serious. I wasn't just asking you out because you were the last person in the bar." I want to tell her all the things that I don't nearly have the courage to tell her, but for some Freudian reason I feel perfectly at ease telling you, a roomful of strangers, knowing full well that she's in this room, listening to everything I say and knowing that I'm talking about her. That when she gets up and reads her poetry, she becomes a hot knife and I become a stick of butter. That when I tell her that I like her poems, she gets this crooked little smile on her face and says, "Well, I'm just working on them," and I could so easily lose myself in that crooked little smile and never see the light of earth again. That when it's really crowded in here and she has to walk from here (points stage right) to here (points stage left) she has to carry her drink over her head and her t-shirt comes up a little bit and you can see a little slice of her waist, and it's pale and smooth and I'm not positive, but it may just be the sexiest goddamn thing I've ever seen in my life.

These are things I've wanted to say since Valentine's Day. And now I have. And now... I'm done.